


A Conveyance

by PurpleProsaist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mid-Quest, Purple Prose, hobbit kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 05:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleProsaist/pseuds/PurpleProsaist
Summary: Frodo stares at his hand, and traces the paths of Sam's tears.





	A Conveyance

Frodo stares at his hand, and traces the paths of Sam's tears. They'd flowed over the hills of knuckles and down his fingers like rivers, thick wet tracks that glint meekly at him in the gloom. 

Breathlessly, on a crest of emotion that crashes over and ruthlessly smothers every logical notion he has ever held, he rises to his feet and bridges the distance. He steps into Sam's path, a silent request for his attention which halts Sam's pacing and garners the focus of anticipant brown eyes. Steadfast. Still reddened, although Sam has by now successfully wiped all the water from his face. 

Frodo then ruins Sam's every effort at composure to take Sam's face in his hands, tries to articulate in a touch the gravity and sincerity of what he must say next. However, they have already shared the only words to possibly be had on the matters still clutching with cruelly sharp fingers at Frodo's conscience. 

They shall die together. Frodo had chosen what he may of his own part, and for all his insistence to go alone, to spare the other's life, Sam had chosen what he may of his own part as well. It is settled, this understood truth: they are together, and rightly so, and therefore shall die together as well. Inconsequential of the innate necessity of each other's wellbeing. 

Frodo finds a reverent love written plainly, in the simplest possible of terms in Sam's eyes, as foretold by Sam's loyalty as is told in his actions. Frodo attempts fruitlessly — opens then closes his mouth — to form the words that might express the full brunt of his gratitude and sorrow and honor. It is such an unfathomable honor to die with this hobbit at his side, but that would be insensitive and selfish of Frodo to say aloud, and belies the full nuanced truth of his heart. At this loss, he drifts forward, leaning ever closer by tentative increments. It gives Sam ample time to shift away, but he only stands, as stalwart as the trees all around, as Frodo finally does kiss him. 

This is how Frodo tells Sam, now moving his lips, prodding, gingerly nudging up against his responsive mouth, the unspeakable sentiment in full return. Sam is to him, for one moment perhaps stolen of the world's very breath, somehow, the singular point of existence. A sob reverberates so radiantly about and against him — and through him — and Frodo's face wets with tears that are not his own. 

Then it is over, for Frodo's thoughts begin catching up to him, and he realizes that he has not merely kissed Sam — but that they are presently _kissing_. 

More than a chaste peck, but close-mouthed, it is something lingeringly sweet and liquid, pure and sustaining as honey. Still, Frodo begins to reason that with Sam, that chaste peck would have been the only appropriate conveyance, if even that. It never would serve that purpose fully, but that purpose could never hope to compare to Sam's worth itself. Frodo pushes against his shoulders, distances the two of them with only the faintest of pressure against Sam's solidity. He forces himself to look at Sam once, for as cowardly as Frodo now feels, he cannot leave him entirely unacknowledged. A wary gratitude stirs within him to at least see no visible hurt in Sam's eyes, but to his horror he suddenly finds their language incomprehensible — despite that Frodo knew he had seen Sam look upon him with that exact expression very often. But Sam says nothing. Frodo shuffles backwards. 

And retreats back into the fog. 

While the ice edge of despair still permeates below his every earthly sense, Frodo feels oddly warmed now too, as though from within. It is a living, rosy warmth that had once been familiar, as a long-forgotten air known by heart, or as the deep look he had just seen in Sam's eye. He wraps his arms about his middle in shame; he must have stolen this bit of comfort from his faithful Samwise' very breath, somehow. 

When Frodo looks back, Sam has not moved, but stands in the same spot Frodo had left him. He is stilled and dumbed and still unreadable with his head down and his face hidden in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> This never set out to be anything of quality, just a little scene from one of my favorite Frodo×Sam romance arcs that play out in my head as I fall asleep. And at all times, actually. And it's cheesy tripe because that's just how I roll. I may have other things from this same "verse" up my sleeve, including perhaps a specific sequelette to this. 
> 
> I realize I need to find an alternative fuel source quick, but still, feedback — positive, negative, both, whatever is truthful — keeps my motivation running. I'd love to hear any thoughts you might have!


End file.
